


The Muggles Have a Word for Them

by kelly_chambliss



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Class Differences, Class Issues, Community: hp_beholder, F/F, Female-Centric, LGBTQ Female Character, POV Female Character, POV First Person, POV Original Character, Pre - Philosopher's Stone, Romance, Romantic Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-26
Updated: 2013-05-26
Packaged: 2017-12-13 01:07:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/818156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kelly_chambliss/pseuds/kelly_chambliss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the Fat Lady plays matchmaker and learns some new vocabulary.  Written for HP_Beholder, 2013.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Muggles Have a Word for Them

**Author's Note:**

> Though JKR may be coy when it comes to directly acknowledging same-sex relationships in HP, she's kindly given us subtext galore. Fat Lady/Violet is practically canon (if you ask me), and then there are all those lovely dykes with short grey hair and monocles. So I thought it was about time that someone brought their story out into the open. 
> 
> Written for Lash_Larue
> 
> My thanks to my excellent betas, The Real Snape and Boadicea12

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The story takes place before the arrival of the Trio at Hogwarts -- c. 1986.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"The Muggles have a word for them, you know." 

Violet makes this pronouncement as she swans into my portrait space and drops onto my favourite _chaise longue_ , the one I've just spend half an hour plumping the cushions of. It's not easy to plump a two-dimensional cushion that's made of canvas and stiffened with paint, as Violet is well aware. She should have had the delicacy to leave the softest seat for me. It's my picture frame, after all, and she knows how my spine and limbs ache after so many hours devoted to answering the constant summons of all those Gryffindor children impatient to get into their common room. 

But that's Violet for you. No sense of propriety, poor dear. It comes from her having spent so many years hanging in the parlour of a Muggle boarding-house. When she first arrived at the castle, Violet wanted us to believe that her portrait used to grace the gallery of some Stately Home, but we soon learnt -- from Colonel Frobisher, who hangs next to Vi downstairs near the Great Hall and who had many late-night confabs with her in her lonely early days -- that "shabby-genteel" was the best that could be said of the place.

Since I am a woman with a sensitive and vivid imagination, it quite pains me to have to visualise such an abode -- tatty antimacassars covering every threadbare surface, dust swept under the carpets by slatternly girls-of-all-work taking advantage of their lack of supervision, and the odour of cabbage permeating all. (Of the many benefits of being a magical portrait, one of those I most appreciate is the fact that I no longer need to sully my senses with all those disagreeable smells of the three-dimensional world.)

But I do feel for what Violet must have endured, so I make allowances for her. I try not to forget that unlike myself, she didn't have the benefit of a sheltered, careful upbringing. Her father made a reasonable living, true, but. . .well. . .I'll simply come out and say it: he was in _trade_. A greengrocer in Leeds or some such thing. Merlin knows what would have become of Vi if she hadn't had the good fortune to be born a witch. She's told me many times how grateful she was to exchange the shop for Hogwarts. 

Well, well. I won't fuss about the cushions. Vi is a good friend to me, after all, and is such an excellent source of information, since she has more freedom to wander from portrait to portrait than I do. (Serving as the Guardian to the common room of Hogwarts' premier House is quite an honour, but it does limit one's mobility.)

"A word for what, my dear?" I ask. 

"For them." She nods towards the corridor, where Madam Hooch the Quidditch mistress is talking to the new astronomy teacher, Professor Sinistra, who has the charmingly-appropriate given name of Aurora. But if you'll pardon the bluntness of my observation, she herself does _not_ look terribly charming: she has very short brown hair, like a man's, and her hands look like a man's, too, with short nails, and she wears no jewellery at all. Her robes are plain as plain, and I do believe. . .

"Violet, hand me my lorgnette, if you please," I say. When she does, I take a good look at Miss Professor Sinistra and gasp, "Is she. . .could she possibly be wearing _trousers_ underneath her robe?"

"I fear so," says Violet, pursing her lips in disapproval, though I've told her time and again that portraits' faces are not immune to unsightly lines. Even the highest-quality paint will crack eventually if one stresses it often enough. 

"I very much fear so," she repeats.

Trousers on a lady professor! This is unacceptable, and I say so emphatically to Violet, adding, "Madam Hooch has some excuse for such attire, what with spending so much time on a broomstick, but I simply see no justification for trousers on other women."

"Well, that's what I'm trying to tell you," Violet says. "This new professor isn't like other women. She's what the Muggles call a 'butch.'"

"A _what_?" 

"A butch. Madam Hooch is one as well. A woman who acts like a man, wears men's clothes, cuts her hair short. No adornments. Not even the lightest touch of rouge."

Oh, one of _those_ women. Well, I don't know why Violet thinks I need to know some vulgar Muggle term for them. We have such women in the wizarding world, too, of course; we call them "hitches," for "he-witch," a much more tasteful expression, if you ask me. Why Violet doesn't know this, I can't imagine, I mean, she _did_ receive a fine magical education.

In fact, it was because of Hogwarts that she came to have her portrait painted in the first place. In her seventh year, she had a sweet, doomed romance with a Hufflepuff lad whose pure-blood family broke things off as soon as they heard he'd become captivated by a Muggle-born. But he never forgot her. He was artistic, was Violet's dear Edwald, and in later years, when he heard that she'd passed on (around the time of the old queen's death, it was), he attended her wake and painted her likeness as a comfort to her sorrowing grandnieces and nephews. 

(That's why Violet always looks so pasty and sunken-eyed; Edwald wanted her family to remember the woman she had become, but he had only her death-visage to go by, not having seen her in life since they'd left school. He did his best to give her portrait some energy and animation, but just between us, I don't think Edwald had much talent with his brush; she still looks rather corpse-like to me. But Violet insists that she's just "interestingly pale," and of course I humour her. I'm lucky enough to have been painted when I was in the full flush of earthly health, and it would be petty of me to make poor Vi feel too much of the difference between us. Sadly, not long after my own painting was finished -- it was commissioned by my dear papa -- I went into a gentle decline and died a most affecting death, surrounded by my loving family and several devoted, grieving admirers of both sexes, but that's a story for another time.)

As to how Violet ended up on the wall of a Muggle boarding-house: well, it seems that not long after she passed into the 2D realm, the greengrocery failed, and the family's effects were put under the hammer. Violet was purchased by a Muggle landlady looking to smarten up her parlour. She didn't know the portrait was magical, of course; she just put it above her mantel, and there poor Vi hung for the next forty years or so, watching sad Muggle clerks come and go until the landlady's daughter took over her mother's business during that big Muggle war and rented the entire place to women "munitions workers," whatever they may be.

That must be when Vi learnt about Muggle hitches. It can't have been any later, because in 1945, her portrait was rescued from the boarding-house by Headmaster Dumbledore himself, who happened to be visiting (he had to go into many dodgy places during the war) and recognised the magic and bought her. I remember the year exactly, because it was not long after he defeated that dreadful maniac Grindelwald. 

When the castle portraits heard the news about Grindelwald (Headmistress Derwent brought it from her portrait in St Mungo's), we had a lovely celebration. Several of the knight-portraits liberated the champagne from the still-lifes in Gryffindor Tower, and we all made so very merry that by the next morning, some of us had only hazy recollections of the jollifications. 

Now, it should go without saying that I comported myself like the lady I am, so I will declare here once and for all that Sir Cadogan has no -- absolutely no -- cause to wink and smile at me in so knowing a fashion, the way he has done ever since that night. It's not gentlemanly behaviour. Not gentlemanly in the least.

I suppose I shouldn't be surprised, however. I don't care how many titles he affects: Sir Cadogan is _not_ a gentleman born. According to the Knights of Merlin whose portraits are near Ravenclaw Tower, in his 3D life, Cadogan was no more than a lowly thane -- a servant. In a royal household, true, but a servant all the same. He was no more a Knight of the Round Table than I was. And as for that tale of his having fathered seventeen children. . .well, if you'll pardon my unladylike diction, I say, "hogwash!"

Apparently he always yearned to be a knight-at-arms, and once when the royal household was summering at its country estate, he talked one of the duke's knights into letting him -- Cadogan, I mean -- try on a suit of armour. The fool man rode out on a farm pony, tried to impress a local maiden by jousting -- and broke his neck!

The duke paid to have Cadogan's portrait painted in his borrowed armour -- cuirass, double visor, jousting lance, farm pony, the lot. And no matter what Cadogan insists, the painting was _not_ done in his honour: it was done to hang in the duke's children's nursery as an object lesson against pretension and forgetting one's place.

However. Be that as it may. Yes, Cadogan wrongs me with his winks and nudges, but he is incidental to my point here. My point is that Violet has been a Hogwarts Castle portrait for forty years, and it is high time that she put her unfortunate Muggle days behind her, including her knowledge of their arcane terminology.

(Mind you, I have nothing against Muggles themselves. Poor dears, they mean well. They do their best to cope without magic, and, given their limitations, the things they accomplish are little short of miraculous. In my own 3D youth, for instance -- when I was the merest child, carrying my first real-fur muff (dark-brown niffler fur, it was, and softer than soft) -- I was taken to London to see the Crystal Palace, and what a wonder it was: quite as interesting as many magical structures. So you see, I'm not one of those narrow-minded sorts who maligns Muggles merely because they _are_ Muggles. But in the Muggle world as in ours, there are people who -- well, not to put too fine a point on it -- are just not Our Sort, if you understand me. And the sad clerks and strong-minded women of Violet's boarding-house days were most definitely in that unfortunate category. She needs to put them and their words out of her head.)

"'Butch,' indeed," I say to Violet. "What a sadly unmellifluous expression."

"I like it," Violet says. "It sounds honest and plain and stout-hearted, just like Madam Hooch herself. And her butch friends...you know, Madam Bones and that animal-lady, Madam Grubbly-Plank. I like the way they look. I wish you could have seen them in their dress robes last Yuletide, when the Headmaster gave his dinner for the staff and their friends."

(I confess, I think it rather unkind of Violet to mention this, since the Headmaster's Yule dinner takes place in the small antechamber near the Great Hall where her portrait hangs, so of course she gets to attend all the parties while I languish up here looking after the children who remain over the holiday. Then again, Violet does generously share with me the liqueur chocolates that the Headmaster always gives the ground-floor portraits at Christmastide, so I will forgive her for reminding me of what I miss. And it's not as if I'm forgotten at Christmas; Professor McGonagall is a good lass who doesn't neglect the Guardian of her House. She gives me a lovely painted bottle of Veuve Corneille every year.)

"Madam Grubbly-Plank was there as Professor McGonagall's guest," Vi chatters on, "and she wore a black dress robe with a white tie. Quite fetching, she looked."

I turn my lorgnette on Violet to see if perhaps she's beginning to develop a case of portrait rot. It happens, you know, even in the most well-regulated of castles. Dampness breeds mould, it's a sad fact of life whether 2D or 3D, and mould is not kind to painted canvas. But Vi looks normal (well, as normal as a picture based on a corpse ever looks), so she must be serious.

"Why, Violet," I say, and I can tell from her face that she hears the note of hurt in my voice. "I thought you preferred someone daintier and more lady-like." 

In any event, that's what she always tells me when we're sitting cosily tête-à-tête on my _chaise longue_ of an evening, and I'm allowing her to steal kisses behind our fans, like the dear-and-forever friends we are. Despite her regrettable origins, we have become quite close and often share caresses and body warmth in my bed on cold nights. (Even a portrait feels the draught during a Highland winter.) Violet and I are not like Madam Hooch -- we haven't either of us a manly bone in our bodies, and I haven't had short hair since I was nine years old and had to sacrifice my beautiful locks to dragon pox -- but we do generally find women more to our romantic taste than men.

(It took me many years to understand myself. I was most carefully raised, of course, sheltered and petted; it wasn't until I arrived at Hogwarts as a portrait that I discovered that a woman could love a woman as more than a schoolgirl crush. 

The discovery came about in lovely romantic fashion. In my early years, before I was promoted to Guardian of Gryffindor, I had the good fortune to hang next to the portrait of Vrunhilde the Valkyrie. Talk about an education! I probably shouldn't say so, but in certain ways, I learnt more from dear Vrunhilde than I ever learnt from my Hogwarts professors. The day her portrait was incinerated by a student's mis-aimed hex was one of the saddest days of my 2D existence.

But time heals, of course, and eventually I mended my broken heart and moved on, so that by the time Violet arrived, I was quite ready to fling myself into the arms of Eros once more -- or the arms of Vi, which amounts to the same thing.)

She and I have been bosom companions for many year now, so it doesn't please me in the least to find that after all this time and all her many compliments about my darling curls and my becoming pink silk gown, she actually prefers hitches.

She hastens to reassure me.

"Oh, I do, I _do_ love a lady-like lady," Vi says, patting my cheek and adjusting my lace. She's too decorous to do more, not with the professors standing there in the corridor. "Don't be cross, dear, you know that no one will ever supplant you in my heart. But you know yourself how aesthetically appealing a dashing set of dress robes can be!"

Well, she has the right of it there, I must admit. We've both mentioned more than once how nicely Phineas Nigellus Black fills out the ceremonial headmaster's robes in his portrait.

So I squeeze Violet's hand, and we turn our attention back to Madam Hooch and Professor Sinistra.

"You'll probably find Hogwarts a bit of an adjustment at first," Madam Hooch is saying. "I did. To tell you the truth, I never expected to spend my post-Harpies career knee-deep in children. But it's turned out to be very rewarding in its own way."

Professor Sinistra shoves her hands into her trouser pockets and rocks back on her heels. (Not the most attractive stance, I'm sorry to report. But Madam Hooch doesn't seem to mind. I haven't seen her smile like this since she and Professor McGonagall got box seats for the Quidditch World Cup.)

"Well, the stars tend to be the same no matter where one fetches up," Professor Sinistra says. "But Hogwarts does seem a little isolated."

Madam Hooch runs a hand through her hair to spike it up, and Violet nudges me. We've seen Hooch do that before, when she's seen a lady who catches her interest. You see, although Violet and I prefer women, we can appreciate an attractive manly man, too. Girls like Madam Hooch are different, however. I don't believe there's a man alive who has ever set her heart a-flutter. 

But it looks as if Professor Sinistra might be doing so.

"I know what you mean," Madam Hooch nods. "I felt the same way at first. But you'll find all our colleagues very welcoming and friendly." She grimaces. "Well, I should say, most of them are. Severus Snape isn't exactly a barrel of laughs, and Irma Pince -- have you met her? She's the librarian. She can be a little prickly. But Pomona Sprout and Filius Flitwick are delightful, and Poppy Pomfrey the matron is a lot of fun, and so is Minerva. Minerva McGonagall, you know. The deputy headmistress. You've met her."

Violet and I exchange glances. We haven't heard this level of chattiness from Madam Hooch in years.

Professor Sinistra laughs. "I confess, 'a lot of fun' aren't the first words that come to mind when I think of the Deputy Head. To tell you the truth, she rather scares me."

Madam Hooch laughs, too. "Believe it or not, I think she'd be shocked to hear that. She honestly doesn't realise how intimidating she can be. But when she lets her hair down -- well, figuratively speaking -- there's no one funnier. She's been through a rough patch this last year, though. You know that her husband died back in the summer?" 

"I'd heard something about that, yes," Professor Sinistra says. "Freak accident, wasn't it? Sad. I'm sure it must be hard for her."

"It is. We've all been trying to look after her -- well, to the extent that she'll let us, I mean. Minerva's pretty independent. But she did go to the headmaster's Yule dinner last month, which I thought was a good sign."

"Does he throw a lot of parties, then, the headmaster?" asks Professor Sinister, grinning. "Or is it just a once-a-year thing, and the rest of the time he lets his sparkly robes be the party?"

Madam Hooch gives a great guffaw -- frankly, a far heartier response than that rather pitiful joke warrants. Violet nudges me again.

"The Yule dinner is his only official gathering," Madam Hooch says, "but it's definitely not the only social event you'll find at the castle. You'll have to join our Fortnightly Coven -- just the ladies on the staff plus a few good friends from outside. We meet on alternate Saturdays in different people's rooms. We'll be at Minerva's this week, you should come..."

They've been wandering slowly down the corridor as they speak, and now they disappear beyond the statue of Godric Gryffindor, and we can hear no more.

"Oh!" Violet breathes, clasping her hands in front of her like a young girl. Sometimes that gesture grates on my nerves, but tonight, I understand completely. "The Fortnightly Coven is meeting at Professor McGonagall's this week! Can't we go, dear?"

"We really shouldn't," I say, but not very forcefully, and Vi presses her advantage.

"Please? We haven't been in simply ages. Not since the start of autumn term."

It's true. You see, we aren't on the official guest list for the Coven Fortnightlies, and we're hardly the sort of ladies who show up at parties uninvited.

Well, not very often, at any rate. And in this case, I think one could easily argue that we have what might be called a "standing invitation." At least _I_ do. You see, as Guardian of the Gryffindor Common Room, I have access to Professor McGonagall's private quarters. If an emergency arises -- the wee firsties overeat themselves at a feast and have upset tummies, or students forget their dignity as Gryffindors and hex each other -- I can summon their Head of House. There are empty portrait frames for me in both her sitting room and her bedroom.

Of course I try not to take advantage of this privilege -- the professor deserves her bit of privacy -- but then again, I do feel a certain responsibility to remain informed of castle goings-on. Although I would never stoop so low as to spy on 3D people, we portraits _are_ in a good position to see and hear things that the Headmaster or a Head of House really need to know about. For the health and safety of the students and staff, you understand.

And if Violet and I do attend the Coven Fortnightly at Professor McGonagall's this week, it's not as if we'll really be intruding. We'll be quiet as mice, of course, and we'd never presume to enter the conversation. Why, they'll never even know we're there. Indeed, when you think about it, we should count as members of the Coven anyway. Aren't Violet and I, for all intents and purposes, part of the Hogwarts female staff? 

I squeeze Violet's hand again. "Of course we'll attend, dear. We have to make sure that Professor Sinistra is settling in well, and as the Guardian of Gryffindor, I have a positive _duty_ to keep an eye on Professor McGonagall, the poor thing. I don't care how independent she is, a widow needs support. Call for me on Saturday, and we'll go together. 

"And now," I finish, "I think we could both do with a little restorative, don't you? Fetch the painting of the elf-made wine, if you would be so kind. I'll pour."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The Coven ladies always gather at eight o'clock, so Violet and I arrive a few minutes later. Lady Montmorency has agreed to substitute for me at the Gryffindor common room (her portrait is in the dungeons, so she's often glad of the chance to spend a few hours in a cheerier realm).

Vi and I take our seats quietly on opposite sides of my empty portrait frame in Professor McGonagall's sitting room; I keep two lovely gilt chairs there for the purpose. We sit just far enough back so that we're invisible to the occupants of the room; it wouldn't do at all to have the professors notice us and ask what the emergency is. We can hear perfectly, and even though we can't see anything except each other and can't speak, we have a fine time communicating through our own little sign language. And we've brought sufficient sustenance. Violet managed to persuade the portrait of Pierre de Blancmange to bring her some liqueur chocolates from the castle stores (such a charming man; he was once the head chef to Salazar Slytherin, you know. It's so very convenient to have a friend who hangs near the kitchens).

So we settle in nicely, just in time to hear Professor McGonagall's wards announce the arrival of visitors from outside the castle. They are Mesdames Amelia Bones, who is the head of Magical Law Enforcement, and Wilhelmina Grubbly-Plank, the lady in charge of the Ministry's thestral-breeding program. Our dear professors have many lovely friends in high places.

"Butches," Violet mouths at me, and I wave my hand to shush her. It's true -- both of these ladies are sturdy and short-haired, and yes, rather masculine in their affect. They have monocles just like all the rich merchants in Papa's day, and Madam Grubbly-Plank smokes a pipe the way Papa did, too (now _there_ is one scent I miss!) But I still don't think we need to call them names. Well, not Muggle ones. We should stick to our own kind.

"Hitches," I mouth back at Vi.

"Oh, good, Amelia made it," says Professor McGonagall. "She wasn't sure she'd be available."

The voice of Professor Sprout answers her. "Yet another reason to be grateful for the demise of You-Know-Who. Amelia's had so much more free time these last few years."

"Well, don't get too comfortable, Pomona," Professor McGonagall says. "You know Albus maintains that You-Know-Who will be back."

"Perhaps." That brisk voice belongs to Madam Pomfrey the matron. "But we'll face that problem when it happens, Minerva. No need to borrow trouble now."

The newcomers arrive. Professor Grubbly-Plank's hearty tones are always a welcome sound, and Madam Bones is never in a room very long before the laughter starts. 

Then Madam Pince says, rather querulously, "Of course Rolanda is late. No doubt she's polishing brooms or something and lost track of the time -- again."

"Here she is now," says Professor McGonagall, and indeed, the wards chime to indicate an internal visitor.

Madam Hooch breezes in, and one can almost feel the cold air of the Quidditch Pitch breezing in with her. "Sorry I'm a bit late," she says. "I stopped at Aurora's room to see if she was back from Edinburgh yet, but no luck. Too bad; I really wanted her to start to get to know us."

"Not to worry," says Madam Grubbly-Plank. "Friendly sort, Aurora. Fit right in in no time."

"That's right, I forgot you two already know each other," Professor Sprout says. "And you know her, too, Amelia, right?"

"Right. Minerva, I'm cracking open this second bottle of Ogden's, okay? That first one was already almost empty. Have you been spending your evenings with Sybill or something?"

Laughter, and I can hear Professor McGonagall snort. "The day Sybill Trelawney can stand up to a stiff Ogden's is the day I start believing in Divination," she says. "Of course I invited her for tonight, but as usual, she claimed a prior engagement. It must be an engagement with her Inner Eye, because she hasn't left her rooms since lunch."

"An engagement with her inner sherry bottle, most likely," says Madam Bones. "So then who's been at your best firewhisky?"

Violet mimes drinking and cocks an inquisitive eyebrow towards the sitting room; she's asking whether poor Professor McGonagall, in her grief over the loss of her husband, has taken to drink. I shake my head firmly. Whatever the professor's faults, a reliance on spirits is not one of them.

"Albus," Professor McGonagall says. "It's his own bottle; my purse doesn't run to Ogden's Gold Label. He keeps it here for our chess evenings. He's been coming by quite often lately; seems to think I need looking after." I can hear the smile in her voice, and the others are suddenly silent; I can imagine all them all glancing away, since they've been trying to look after her, too.

"Well," says Professor Sprout. "It's just that with Elphie. . .passing on so suddenly, it's such a shock, we need to make sure you take care of yourself. . .we worry about you."

"I know you do, Pomona, and I appreciate your concern. I just don't want to be coddled; I don't want people to be afraid to mention Elphinstone's name to me."

"Oh, we'll get to Elphie, never fear," says Madam Bones, who is definitely not the coddling sort. "As soon as we finish with Aurora. Albus made a good move in hiring her; she's a gem. Willa and I have known her since our earliest Ministry days."

"An astronomer worked for the Ministry?" asks Professor Sprout in surprise. "Doing what?"

"No, Willa and I worked for the Ministry; Aurora was at uni. I forget exactly how we met her -- "

"At one of Griselda Marchbanks's gatherings," says Madam Grubbly-Plank. "Did a lot for us, Griselda did. For women like us, I mean. Gave us a place to relax together, get to know each other, build a network."

"Mmmm. Great times, weren't they, Willa?" Madam Bones sounds nostalgic. "All our fellow hitches and their lovely ladies, all in one place..."

I can't resist looking triumphantly at Violet. Hitches. Not butches. Vi makes a little face at me.

"So, Aurora Sinistra is one of us?" Madam Hooch says, with what I think is just a touch too much nonchalance.

"You can say 'lesbian,' Rolanda," says Madam Pince. "You and Willa and Amelia needn't be coy with the Coven, heterosexual though the rest of us may be."

"You don't have to make those sound like dirty words, Irma," retorts Madam Hooch.

"Personally," booms Madam Bones, "I wouldn't mind hearing a few _more_ dirty words around here. There's too much maidenly modesty with all you girls."

"What do you mean?" Madam Pomfrey sounds amused. "You want to hear salacious details of our love lives?"

"Yes, that's exactly what I want to hear. Minerva, you want people to talk to you about Elphinstone? Okay, fine. Maybe tonight is the night you should finally answer my question. I've only asked it at least two dozen times."

The others laugh and groan. "Oh, not _that_ again," says Professor Sprout. 

"Yes, that. Why not? Admit it, you're all dying to know. I think it's about time you coughed up the goods, McGonagall. Tell us: how was Elphie in bed?"

Violet stares at me wide-eyed; we can't believe what we've just heard. If Vi's face hadn't been painted as so "interestingly pale," I know her cheeks would be flaming. My own painted cheeks are a lovely delicate rose (just as they were in my 3D days), but I'd be blushing, too, if I could. As respectable women, Violet and I should get up and leave this moment. 

We should. We really should.

But I fear that if we were to flee now, given our agitation, we'd reveal our presence. Better just to sit quietly and suffer through whatever indecencies we are about to hear. I motion to Violet to move back; she's leaning forward a bit, and I'm afraid her hair fringe is visible in the frame.

"Amelia, that's personal," says Professor McGonagall. 

She's not going to answer, then. Blast. Oops, I mean, good for her! I knew I could count on the Head of Gryffindor to be a lady and keep such things to herself.

"Of course it's personal! That's the point," says Madam Bones. "If you can't be personal with your beloved Coven, then who?"

"Ha! She's right, Minerva. Come on, spill," urges Madam Hooch. "What was Elphie like in bed?"

There's a heavy sigh, and I can just picture Professor McGonagall rolling her eyes. "He was always very. . .attentive," she says.

The others shriek with laughter, and it occurs to me that Madam Bones's impudent question was in fact a wise one. I think this is the first time since Mr Urquart's untimely demise that I've heard anyone speak of him in other than hushed, sympathetic tones. Professor McGonagall is right -- we all _have_ been rather treating her like a piece of fragile china. It's time we stopped.

There's a babble of responses: "Never left you unsatisfied, is that what you mean?" "But what did he -- ?" "How was his --?"

"Oh, let Min be," says Madam Pomfrey. "She's said enough; figure out the rest for yourselves."

Then Madam Grubbly-Plank says, "Rolanda, in answer to your question, yes, Aurora Sinistra is a lesbian. Why? Interested in her, are you?"

"Well. . .it's possible," says Madam Hooch airily.

"Really, Ro? But I thought you always went for, you know, dainty women," says Professor Sprout. "Like Flossie Abbott with her lace collars."

"Haha, Flossie Abbott!" laughs Madam Bones. "And we all know how well _that_ relationship worked."

"Amelia, behave," says Professor McGonagall. "But Pomona's right, Ro -- Aurora doesn't seem your usual type."

"It comes as a surprise to me, too," says Madam Pince. "I've read some of the academic literature, Muggle and magical both, and the scholarship suggests that attraction rarely if ever occurs between two butch women. They can't constitute each other."

At the word "butch," Violet smirks and wags her finger at me with what I think is just a bit too much self-satisfaction. A little legitimate triumph is one thing, but there's no need to overdo it.

"What the hell does that even mean, 'constitute each other'?" demands Madam Bones.

I hear a puffing sound and know that Madam Grubbly-Plank is taking a few ruminative pulls on her pipe. "Irma," she says, "I'm afraid your literature's got the wrong end of the wand on this one. At least in terms of my own experience. Been attracted to a lot of hitches in my time, and I'm not exactly a feminine ideal."

"I'm sure I meant no offense," says Madam Pince stiffly. "I was just reporting what -- "

"Oh, never mind, Irma, it's all right," says Madam Hooch. "It's true, I'm not usually compelled by women like Aurora, but...I don't know, there's just something about her. That cute little cowlick in her hair, maybe. Is she involved with anyone, do you know, Willa? Amelia?"

"Not as far as I know," says Madam Bones. "But my advice is just to go ahead and court her. She'll let you know if she's not interested."

Madam Grubbly-Plank grunts assent. "Nice woman. Let you down easy, if it comes to that."

Professor Sprout giggles, which means she's on her third cup of mead. "I thought that was supposed to be Rolanda's job."

"Excuse me?" says Madam Pince.

"I don't get it," says Madam Hooch.

Professor McGonagall laughs. "Well, no one lands a broom more smoothly than Rolanda."

"That's it exactly!" says Professor Sprout, still giggling. "We all know how you like to take your ladies for romantic rides, Ro. And you always bring them down easy!"

Madam Bones groans. "No more mead for you, Pomona," she says. "Not if you've reached the bad-jokes stage already."

"Oh, don't listen to her, Pomona," says Madam Pomfrey. "She loves the bad jokes; we all do. But, Ro, I think _you_ should listen to Amelia. If you're interested in Aurora, pursue her."

"I don't know," says Madam Hooch slowly. "If it doesn't work out, then we'll both be stuck here. No getting away from each other."

It's a good point. I've often thought how difficult things would be if Violet and I ever had a falling-out. That sort of situation does happen, unfortunately. The headmaster even had to move the portrait of Winifred the Winsome after her ill-fated affair with Sir Reginald of Pimms. After their break-up, they kept shouting at each other from their frames on opposite sides of the Charms corridor, and poor Professor Flitwick's classes were constantly interrupted. The aftermath of failed _liaisons d'amour_ is never pretty. 

Still. . .for the sake of _l'amour_ , I do hope Madam Hooch changes her mind.

Ah, _l'amour_.

"Oh, come on, Ro," says Madam Bones. "There'll be plenty of space for the both of you. It's a big castle. And magically expandable."

"True," says Madam Hooch, drawing out the word as if she's pondering. "Well," she says finally. "I'll give it some more thought." 

The Coven members must feel they have said enough, because they don't press the issue, and the talk moves on to matters of curriculum. Of course, I would be willing to stay and be edified, but I know that Violet finds such conversations tedious (she's not terribly intellectual, poor dear). So I sign to her that it's time to leave, and we melt quietly away.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"The Great Romance," proclaims Violet as she enters my portrait space, "is Dead."

Too dramatic by half, is Vi, but unfortunately, she has a point. 

It's been a week since the Coven Fortnightly, and Vi and I have been eagerly awaiting advancements in the romance between Madam Hooch and Professor Sinistra -- we've been certain that Madam Hooch would decide in favour of proceeding. Vi has been regularly checking the staff room and the Astronomy Tower, and we've recruited the captain of the 1889 World-Cup-winning British Quidditch team, whose portrait hangs in the Field House, to bring us daily reports from that quarter, but so far. . .no cheer.

"The two of them were alone in the staff room just now," Violet continues, "and it would have been the perfect opportunity for Madam Hooch. She asked Professor Sinistra if she had any fun plans for her Saturday night, and I was _sure_ that she was going to suggest a 'date,' as they say nowadays, but she didn't! She only talked about what a busy week it had been and how she's thinking of offering a special Beaters' workshop to the players of all Houses."

"Well, perhaps she intended to ask and just lost her nerve for the moment," I suggest, though I don't really believe it.

"Oh, when does Madam Hooch ever lack nerve?" Violet snaps, which is what I had been thinking, too, though not nearly so petulantly.

"Temper, temper, Vi," I say gently, but this well-intentioned comment just seems to annoy her. 

"It's not a lack of nerve," she rages on. "It's clearly lack of interest."

I could point out that, based on what we heard at the Fortnightly, Madam Hooch's interest is definitely there -- what seems to be missing is the intention to pursue that interest. But I don't think Violet would respond very well just now to any parsing of linguistic niceties. Sadly, when Vi is in snit, she's simply beyond reason. And in any case, she isn't completely wrong: the romance _does_ seem to have stalled before it even got moving.

"Then it's up to us to do something," I say, and I say it decisively. (People of Violet's class always respond well to directives; they aren't at their best when the initiative must be theirs. This is not a snobbish statement, but merely one of fact.)

"Yes," Violet says happily, her temper restored. "It's up to us. How shall we proceed?"

I take a bonbon from my little silver dish and offer her one, and thus fortified, we draw our heads together and plan.

Since dear Vi and I are nothing if not romantics at heart, I'm sure it will come as no surprise that we do our bit to encourage such pairings-up. We like promote happiness where we can. (And I'm happy to report that we've even had one or two little successes in our attempts to play Cupid, though we still haven't managed to do anything to spice up the love life of our dear headmaster. But I do not despair. I think he and Mr Elphias Doge would make a lovely couple.)

As for the situation more immediately to hand, we decide on a direct approach. Violet will speak to Madam Hooch (who is an early riser and always has a solitary cuppa in the staff room of a morning), and I will speak to Professor Sinistra when she passes my portrait on her way to the library.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

My first opportunity occurs the very next night, Sunday, after curfew, when the children are all safely in the common room. Though the library is closed to students after eight o'clock, it's open for staff, and for the last three Sundays running, Professor Sinistra has availed herself of the chance for some quiet reading.

I have given a great deal of thought to the best approach, and when I hear the professor's footsteps in the corridor, I draw my _chaise_ close to the edge of the frame, fluff my pink skirts, and unfurl my Japanese fan. I've taken care to look my most alluring; even though I'll be speaking on someone else's behalf, I've found that when it comes to romantic persuasion, a little judicious flirtation never comes amiss.

"Professor Sinistra?" I call in my sweetest tones. "Could you spare a moment? Over here, dear, on the wall."

She comes up to my portrait. This time, I'm prepared to see the trousers, which are clearly visible because she's wearing just a short robe -- a waistcoat, really -- over a white shirt and a Hufflepuff cravat. She smiles, revealing pleasant laugh lines around her eyes, and I see that Madam Hooch is correct: the cowlick in her hair is definitely "cute."

"Yes?" she says. "How can I help you, Fa --, er. . . ."

Her face flushes, and I know that she had been about to say, "Fat Lady," but I don't take offense. I don't mind the moniker. It acknowledges my gentility, and I understand that the phrase "Voluptuous Lady" or "Pleasingly-Plump Lady" would probably be too difficult for the firsties to wrap their little lips around.

"Permit me to introduce myself," I say, and lean forward just enough to give a discreet glimpse of décolletage. "I am Arethusa Glomp, of the Liverpudlian Glomps. A Gryffindor old girl, and Guardian of the Common Room since 1922."

"Pleased to meet you, Miss Glomp," she replies, with very proper politeness. I am approving of this woman more and more. "I'm Aurora Sinistra, the new professor of Astronomy."

I nod and tap my fan on the portrait frame. In the 3D world, of course, I would offer my hand, but there are some courtesies that simply cannot survive the transition to 2D.

"I hope you will excuse the impertinence of what I am about to say," I continue. "But when it comes to matters of the heart, I prefer not to stand on ceremony. The life of a 3D is short, and you should not waste it by being alone when the opportunity for fulfilling love is close by."

Professor Sinistra looks a little baffled, which I suppose is to be expected, considering the circumstances. After all, she has no idea of Madam Hooch's interest. But I don't want to spell things out; I'd hate to take away the pleasure of a budding romance, the frisson of excitement that one feels to one's very toes as one faces the delightful uncertainty of "does she or doesn't she?"

So I try indirection. "It is possible," I say carefully, "that a lady of the castle is currently attracted to you. She is, shall we say, smitten? But she is uncertain of her reception, and I thought I'd just make you aware of the situation. In case you'd like to help things along."

The lighting in the corridor is not the best, but I do believe the professor has turned a little pale. "A lady of the castle?" she says. "Interested in _me_? Oh, Merlin, you're not talking about Professor McGonagall, are you? Did she ask you to speak to me?"

Professor McGonagall? Good heavens, wherever did she get _that_ idea? Ah, no doubt from my House affiliation. I hasten to correct the error.

"No, no, not at all," I assure her. "Professor McGonagall is not a. . .what I mean to say is, I believe she is attracted only to gentlemen. You know. The male of the species." 

"Then who --?"

"No, do not ask, my dear, for I shall say no more. I do hope you understand that I am not trying to meddle; I'm just trying to promote the happiness of everyone in our little Hogwarts family."

"But, Miss Glomp -- "

I think that at this point, discretion may be the better part of valour, so I stand and drop a little curtsey. "And now I'll bid you good evening, Professor Sinistra," I say, and cannot resist adding, "sweet dreams," as I step out of my frame.

There. I've done my part, and I trust Violet has done hers, or soon will. I've planted the seed; its sprouting is up to time, chance, and Aphrodite.

Not to mention Madam Hooch.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Violet, it turns out, was having her little chat at about the same time as I was talking to Professor Sinistra. I suspect hers didn't go as well as mine did; at least, Violet is not very forthcoming about the details. Probably she was too blunt (poor thing, diplomacy is not her strong suit). But then again, Madam Hooch is rather blunt herself, so I hope for the best.

But the days slip by, and there's no news. We can't even get our usual information from the Coven Fortnightly, since its next two meetings take place in Madam Pince's room and at Madam Bones's flat, where neither Violet nor I has a frame or a portrait friend good enough to let us borrow theirs.

"It appears that Cupid's arrow did not fly," I finally observe sadly to Violet on a chilly evening in early March. It has been a grey, snowy day, and I am feeling a bit down in the dumps. "Madam Hooch and Professor Sinistra seem destined for cold, solitary beds. It's depressing, Violet."

"You need a pick-me-up," says Vi, patting my hand. "I'll just hop down to the kitchens for some hot chocolate, shall I?"

And off she goes, to fetch us hot chocolate from the quaint little paintings of food that adorn the kitchen walls. Dear girl. I collect my bottle of spirits from behind the settee (it wouldn't do to have the children see it, of course, yet one does feel the need for a nip of strengthener now and then during the workday). I'll add just the weensiest splash to the hot chocolate when it arrives, and then Vi and I can sit cosily together until bedtime. This is going to be a night that requires the sharing of body warmth, I can tell.

But in less time than I would have thought possible even if she'd taken the shortcut behind the portrait of the Hogsmeade Hunt (now defunct, which is a pity from a social point of view, but a boon for the foxes and nifflers), Violet is back, breathless. And empty-handed.

"Where is our hot chocolate?" I ask.

"Never mind that now. Come with me at once!" she exclaims.

"Come with you? Nonsense, it's nearly curfew, the children will be coming in soon, I can't -- "

"Arethusa Glomp!" she shrieks. "You will come with me this instant!"

A little shiver goes through me. It isn't often that Violet becomes masterful, but I find it rather exciting when she does.

"Very well," I say meekly, rising, and she seizes my hand to pull me along pell-mell through the castle's maze of portraits and connecting passageways. I'm quite lost once we leave behind the environs of Gryffindor Tower, and I feel disoriented.

"Violet! More slowly, if you please!" I finally beg. "Where are you taking me?"

"Shhhh!" She stops so suddenly that I nearly cannon into her, and would have, too, were I not a woman who is nimble on my feet. I see light spilling into our portrait passage from a frame just in front of us. 

"Now peek out," Vi instructs in a whisper, "but don't be seen."

I inch forward to the frame and peer cautiously round the edge.

We are the corridor near the school's trophy room, but at the moment, I'm not interested in testimonials to past glory. I'm interested only in the sight before my eyes:

It's Madam Hooch. And Professor Sinistra. 

They are in each other's arms. Kissing. Madam Hooch is pressing the professor against the wall, and I do believe. . .oh, my, yes. . .that Professor Sinistra has insinuated one trouser-clad leg between Madam Hooch's thighs (perhaps trousers for women have their benefits after all).

Well, well, well. It's about time. 

I feel Violet looking over my shoulder, and as we watch, the two women opposite us break apart.

"Maybe we should take this somewhere a little less public," Madam Hooch gasps.

"I think so," replies Professor Sinistra, reaching out a finger to trace the line of Madam Hooch's jaw. "The walls have eyes in this castle. Literally."

Madam Hooch chuckles. "True. Though you have to admit, sometimes match-making portraits can be a good thing."

Vi beats a tattoo of victory on my shoulder -- with perhaps a trifle more force than necessary, but I understand the sentiment.

Professor Sinistra's response is another quick kiss, and Madam Hooch reaches up to ruffle the adorable cowlick.

"My rooms, then?" Madam Hooch says, nuzzling Professor Sinistra's neck above her House tie. "No portraits there."

(True, more's the pity.)

"Mmmm, yes, your rooms," answers Professor Sinistra. "Tonight's a good night for a warm bed."

They move off down the corridor, arms linked. We watch them until they are out of sight.

They're right -- tonight _is_ a good night for a warm bed.

I take my Violet's hand, and together we head towards ours.

~~The End


End file.
